Free The First True Lie: A Novel by Marina Mander Page A

happened to all the respect I’ve taught you? Go on, tell me that!” Mama screamed like a madwoman.
    “Don’t use dirty words, Mama.”
    “Who? Me? Fuck you, and fuck everyone!”
    Usually she doesn’t yell, but that time she went for it.
    She had a handkerchief in her hands, like the ones she keeps in the drawer on top of the red thing, and she was clutching it so tightly, it seemed like she might rip it to shreds at any moment, as if the whole world could crumble to pieces at any moment. For the first time I saw her veins climb up from her fists to her wrists, bluish and swollen. They were no longer my mother’s hands but my grandmother’s, or a man’s, or a wicked witch’s. Mama didn’t seem like Mama anymore; she seemed like a really pissed-off stranger capable of anything.
    The next morning she muttered, “Sorry.”
    I kept staring at my cup and the teddy bear–shaped crackers as I dipped them into the milk.
    “Sorry, there was no reason to get so angry about it.”
    What a silly excuse, what a silly life, what a silly everything.
    That time Mama managed to make me feel just like shit. Why she would keep a pretend willy in her underwear drawer is still a mystery.
    A disgusting mystery.
    I never thought of my mother as being like the women in dirty magazines. And I don’t want to think about it.
    Sometimes, in secret, Davide and I look at dirty magazines. His dad keeps them on top of a wardrobe, along with some movies too, because he thinks no one can get up there. On top of the magazines there’s a suitcase, and on top of the suitcase a bag with pliers, wrenches, screwdrivers, and other men’s things inside. Davide gives me a boost and I climb up because I’m lighter, and his fingers get red and swollen like sausages in the package. My willy has much pinker skin than the ones in the pictures. Maybe they get darker as they grow, the opposite of hair.
    It’s not that I don’t know that Mama likes to have sex once in a while. I’m sure that she did it with the last one, the one whose job seemed to be washing windshields at traffic lights.
    “Vade retro Satana,” she’d cry out in her little girl’s voice.
    “Vade retro!”
    I’d hear her “Vaderetros” from behind the door when I went to pee during the night. Once in a while I’d also hear her laugh and I’d think, At least she’s laughing. They have sex because, for some mysterious reason, they like each other. It doesn’t have anything to do with that other stuff.
    The fact is, now the room is closed, with Mama dead inside, and Davide mustn’t notice anything.
    When he arrives, he says there’s a funny smell.
    “I don’t smell anything,” I reply.
    We play with Blue for a bit. Davide scratches him on the belly and Blue sticks his paws up in the air, like a dog.
    “I told you a cat isn’t so different from a dog.”
    “Why is Blue called Blue when he’s gray?”
    What a moronic question.
    “Why are you called Davide when you’re a moron?”
    We end up in a fight.
    “Stop it, you’re hurting me! You’re hurting me, ouch!”
    I’m hitting him for real, not playing anymore. I’m on top of him and I’m holding him down with a strength I’ve never had before. He’s shouting and slapping his hands down on the carpet like in judo.
    “I surrender, I surrender.”
    I realize I don’t want to let go. I apologize. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    “What’d you do that for?”
    It’s never happened before. Davide is much bigger than me. It’s better with
Snowboard
—he wins. I keep falling; I get the buttons confused; I can’t get it right. I see the turn coming and can’t help trying some fancy move, so I fly into the air and off the course, onto the roof of the chalet. The spectators laugh. Davide complains because he says playing like that is no fun. We drink fruit juice. And eat the last of the snacks.
    “What do you say we do some homework?”
    “Fine, I’ll do it for you.”
    It’s always like this; I